Through Wired Fences
by deanwinchesterprays
Summary: (Destiel) Castiel Novak has never been willing to become a Nazi soldier. However, with Michael in charge of Auschwitz and with Lucifer climbing the ranks of the S.S, the younger brother is finally forced to fight alongside his family. But as each day drags by, and as the blood on his hands refuses to wash away, Castiel begins to question morality, a problem one man makes worse.
1. Chapter 1

The lever is smooth beneath Castiel's fingertips.

It's cold, the metal, and that in itself is perplexing. This weapon, to many, is regarded as the easiest to operate. No bullets for the firearms or fear of needing to re-load - no sharpeners for the blades. No, Castiel thinks, as the soft click of doors closing reaches his ears, this weapon is – surely – the simplest to use.

The effect, however, is still devestating.

Castiel's fingers pull down, the lever heavier than he had remembered it – and the counting begins. "One, two, three, four…" He's sweating, but this part – it's important to him. The most important part there is. "Seven, eight, nine –"

The screaming starts early today, and that throws Castiel off track for a few moments. Perhaps he'd pulled down sooner than he'd thought – perhaps his shaking limbs had finally gotten the better of him. It would not, of course, be the first time.

The soldier's eyelids flutter closed and his breathing huffs out in the form of calming numbers. Castiel can hear, distantly, Gabriel's voice, and the steady rhythm of his words gets clearer and clearer as the counting goes on; this, he knows, is his own personal brand of medication.

_The prince searched the castle for hours, but still could not find the brothers in the fire._

Castiel was younger, probably around six, when Gabriel first told this story. Still – it remains one of his favorites.

"One hundred four, one hundred five, one hundred six."

_The palace is in an uproar, and everyone's goin' crazy, completely nuts. Heck, the screams are so loud that some woman's ears started bleeding. But – hey Cas, don't cry! It's okay! The prince continues, lookin' for his little brother, and finally – yeah Cas, you guessed right! He found him. Anyway – pay attention and stop interrupting! Anyway, the prince found his little brother and ran out as fast as he could, carrying the younger sibling in his arms while getting the help of everyone he could. The guards put out the fire and everyone cheered as the boy left the smoking building with the infant–_

"One hundred forty four, forty five, forty six, seven, eight–"

_And all was saved._

"One hundred fifty."

When Castiel opens his eyes, the area is unnaturally still. The prince, he understands, must have saved the day. With a careful flick of his wrist his fingers are disengaged from the lever, now back into its rightful position. There are, he notices, other soldiers now, opening the door and heading into the room with deliberately practiced calm.

"You done good, soldier."

The sharp voice is in direct contrast with the still quiet, accompanied by a hard pressure. Castiel blinks and nods, turning to the source of the noise to find Zachariah's hand on his shoulder, squeezing with unneeded force.

"Yes sir," Castiel's own tone is harsh, unforgiving, with no traces of his crumbling demeanor. "No survivors, as ordered."

Zachariah snorts as he pokes his head into the room in question, scanning it with eyebrows high enough to disappear inside his cap.

"Good. I never expect any less of you, Novak. Oh –" He pulls out of the room then, face suddenly becoming far too amused, "And your brother wishes to see you when you're –" He motions to the room, a tiny, twisted smile upturning the corner of his lips, "Finished cleaning the mess."

Castiel means to open his mouth, means to utter some sort of stony reply, but the man is already walking off; he's left Castiel to begin his assistance with hauling form after form into the group fire.

One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and two children – fifty five infants.

The smoke, the soldier regards, is a hideous black, and the smell prickles painfully inside the walls of his nose. Burning flesh, he notes, forehead glistening with the exertion of moving bodies.

_This is wrong._

The voice in Castiel's head is stronger than it used to be. And, of course, that makes it all the more infuriating. His grip on the gun slung over his shoulder intensifies, suddenly, trouble sensed before it really comes to pass.

"Yeah, well suck my dick you Nazi shits!"

Inwardly, Castiel is groaning, his stomach in tight, anxious knots. The scene is not unusual – his brother, suited up and ready for a trip to the outside world, looking down upon a fairly young looking boy. He couldn't be older than sixteen.

"I suggest," Michael's drawl becomes clearer as Castiel's steps carry him closer, "that you watch your attitude, boy."

Of course Michael doesn't have to do the dirty work himself – two other men are holding the rowdy teenager back, their fingers gripping so tight that Castiel was certain that there would be bruises.

"I don't have to listen to you! I don't have to listen to any of you!" The young man was out of control, eyes darting wildly around in an agonized frenzy until finally catching sight of Castiel. "You just killed my family," he breathes, and Castiel can feel the breath halt in his chest.

One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and two children – fifty five infants.

And which ones had belonged to the boy now standing in front of him?

"Enough boy," Michael's tone is not as forgiving as it was before, his eyes raking over the sight before him. "We've done nothing but God's work. Right, Novak?"

Words, stuck in Castiel's throat, guilt pooling like bile at the bottom of his stomach. Lies like acid on his tongue – and they burn, everything burns, as he forces his face into the usual, practiced stone-cold expression. "Of course, sir." The soldier's inner turmoil had become just that – inner, no signs of struggle evident on the hard lines and shadows dipping across his face. Michael motions him to go on and the words come easier, the acid easier to ignore. "You have no family now, boy. "I dare say you should show us some respect before your fate is – essentially – the same."

When the boy launches, Castiel wishes for nothing more than the chance to step aside – to alow the grieving young man his fit of rage. But with Michael, with the other men watching –

Castiel doesn't realize he's counting again until he's hauling another body into the blackened smoke, the familiar caress of heat tingeing his face red.

One hundred and seven men. Four hundred and twenty women. Two hundred and three children – fifty five infants.


	2. Chapter 2

Dammit, the heat was starting to get to him.

Dean's movements were far more sluggish than usual, and that was just not fucking acceptable. Sammy needed him, and Adam needed the both of them – if they ever managed to find the kid. Of course the dude would live in Germany, though. Nothing could ever be simple for the Winchesters.

"Move your ass Sammy and keep quiet. The station's only a few blocks away."

The older Winchester didn't have the heart to admit he was planning on bringing Sam back home and coming back for Adam himself. There was just absolutely no way in hell he was going to let his little shit of a brother get himself into some sort of trouble. Especially when that trouble included a Nazi-infested country. Yeah, he thought, there was no way in hell.

"Dean," Sam's hand came down on his shoulder and he turned, eyes rolling with a light huff of breath.

"Quiet Sammy, I'm not joking around here."

"No – Dean – look." Sam's voice is a hushed whisper now, so much quieter than Dean's, though his intentions were clear. Dean can feel the hand on his shoulder tighten as his brother swallows, both sets of eyes sliding over to the source of an outside noise just a few feet in front of them.

"–should have thought about that before you became a Jew." There's a sickening crack, and Dean can just make out, through the dark, a fist colliding with a man's face. Fuck.

"Please –" The man is gurgling on what Dean assumes can only be his own blood, raising his arms to try and protect himself from the Nazi's blows. "Please – sir, my family –"

"Will never see your blasphemous self again."

Another punch and Dean can feel his face reddening, tension spreading throughout his arms and shoulders as he steps forward, away from his and Sammy's hiding place. This is downright wrong, and he can't be expected to just stand here and watch.

"Dean," Sam hisses, moving to take hold of his arm, but Dean's already shrugging him off.

"Stay here, Sammy. I'm not fucking kidding – stay."

"Dean!"

But Dean's already on the move, stepping fully out of the shadows in order to sneak up behind the Nazi bastard who is still beating in the civilian's face.

"Yeah buddy, I think it's you that's being blasphemous." The words are out before Dean can really stop them, and he realizes his mistake as soon as his knuckles hit against the Nazi man's cheek. "Run!" He barks at the man on the ground, whom – oh fuck, no, no, no – Sam is helping into a standing position. "Sam!"

"Go." Sam offers a cloth from his pocket to the bleeding assault victim, ignoring Dean's infuriated cries. The civilian looks like he wants to say something, but Sam pushes him towards the dark, urging him in the opposite direction of the soldier before the guy can get himself into any more trouble.

Trouble, however, has already found the Winchesters.

One punch was not enough to down the Nazi soldier, who was now actively engaged in pulling Dean's hands into iron cuffs. "Assaulting an officer, aiding a Jew – boy you are in one whole wide world of hurt."

"I don't think anything could hurt more than your attempt at being intimidating."

The sentence earns Dean a blow to the face, and everything passes in a blur after that. More soldiers swarming both him and Sam – screaming – another hard hit to Dean's face after trying to punch any soldier that went near his brother. Then – fucking black.

* * *

When Dean comes to, the first thing he wants to do is call for Sam. His throat is raw, and, he discovers with a curse, his hands are still cuffed. There are colors swimming behind his eyelids, stars and images messing with his darkened vision as the bump on the side of his head pulses painfully.

"Sammy?"

There's no answer for a long while, and the worry finally empowers Dean enough so that he's able to force his eyes completely open.

Son of a bitch.

There were probably about twenty people staring at him – mostly women and children. He realizes, after a few seconds, that they're on some sort of moving vehicle. The one window is barred, and it seems to be their only source of fresh air. And dammit all of Dean isn't making himself out to be some sort of idiot, trying to force himself into an upright position with an aching head injury that's making him dizzier ever second.

"Sam!" He tries calling for his brother again, looking at each and every dirty, bloodied face until –

"Over here, Dean."

Relief washes over him, engulfing Dean completely as he regards his younger brother, only just across from him. His eyes rake over each and every inch of Sammy's skin, like he's taking an inventory of his health. Two cuts on his left arm – a bruise near his neck. Other than that though, the kid looks to be fine, with no reason for excess blood loss.

"I'm fine, Dean. I – they –" Sam hesitates to go on, taking a deep breath before leaning forward, closer to his brother. "They took our papers, Dean. All of them. You know – you know where we are, right? And where we're going?"

Dena turns his head, eyebrows furrowed as he gives the place another once-over. The faces of prisoners – all in cuffs. Women and children, scared, some of them crying. A lump starts to form in his throat and he swallows, chest constricting painfully while a little boy clings tight to a mother who seems to be shushing him with fairy tales. No – they can't be on this cart. Dean's mistake couldn't possibly have landed them here, of all places. His mistake couldn't have been this bad. He remembers though, Sam's comments – the papers. The damned fucking papers – with a groan, Dean understands. It only makes sense.

"Sammy, I'm –" Dean's voice sounds small even to his own ears, the guilt suffocating him from the inside out. "I'm so, so sorry." The apology, he knew, wouldn't actually do anything useful. Saying he was sorry wasn't going to save them, and it wouldn't erase Dean's childish outburst of needing to be a fucking hero. Failure now, would be his executioner, with guilt as his judge. Of course he'd always known his own stupidity, his own reckless hero complex, would get him killed someday. He'd just never expected to drag Sammy down with him. Yeah, Dean mused, bitterly, his fingers twisting themselves together as his self-loathing rose in the form of bile in flooding his mouth, what a million dollar brother he was.

"Dean, you can't just blame yourself, okay? I'm the one that ran out to help from the hiding spot, remember?"

That was Sam, somehow always knowing exactly what Dean was thinking. Not that Dean agreed with his excuse, because now he'd let Adam down too. A subject change, he decided, swallowing down the foul liquid burning his tongue, was most definitely in order.

"Do you know –" Dean broke off, lowering his voice as he glanced around them, "Did you find out which one, Sammy?"

The place mattered – reputation meant fucking everything in terms of escape plans and routes.

"Yeah, about that –"

"Sammy, please don't fucking say –"

"Auschwitz."

Sammy didn't know it – but that word was their death sentence. If ever there was a moment Dean wished to go back in time – this was it. Sure, he'd fucked up plenty of times before, made plenty of mistakes in his lifetime. But the weight of this one – it would haunt him until, quite literally, he was dead. This fuck up took the pie, reigned king of all his previous idiocies. And no, apologizing again wouldn't help. Sorry wouldn't make it better, and most certainly wouldn't make any of this shit okay.

"Awesome."

Neither brother spoke for a while after that, each absorbed in their own worlds. That was probably a good thing though – it kept Dean from opening his mouth and vomiting all over his shoes. After the nausea passed, however, Dean found himself subjected to a sort of life-montage. People he knew, always said that when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Instead, Dean saw Sam – not as he is now, or how he was in the past – but Sam's future. The life Dean had stolen from him.

His smart ass little brother would never go to college. He'd never find some cute, not-good-enough-for-him girl and get married. He'd never get adopt some stupid dog to act as a playmate for the kids. Never laugh, never really grow up, never get the chance to just really live his fucking life.

"I'll get you out, Sammy." The promise fell from Dean's lips with determined harshness, an edge to them that he hadn't even meant to be there. "If it's the last goddamned thing I do, I'll get you out of that place."

While Sam did not answer, Dean thought he saw a flicker of hope flash across his brother's darkened features. And that – that was more than enough to strike a chord inside of him, to wake up some animalistic instinct that would allow him to do anything required so long as Sammy could walk away free.

They didn't speak again until the cart came to a full stop and all the prisoners were unloaded. Dean nearly attached himself to his brother's hip, both of them walking in step with each other until they came to the main gate. There was a whole group of Nazis herding the prisoners in – but the one closest to Sam and Dean caught the older Winchester's attention. For one thing, since fucking when did Nazis look bored with their job? Every goddamned one he'd met had always seemed sadistic, with that trade-mark smile plastered across their face. This one though – he seemed tired. Good. All the easier to take advantage of him and explain that this whole goddamned situation was some kind of sick mistake.

"Welcome to Auschwitz," the man called out to the group Sam and Dean had been herded into, his voice only just loud enough to reach them all. "I expect all of you to be on your best behaviors and not to try anything –" The Nazi's eyes scanned the crowd for a moment as he walked the line, passing easily over the women and children, before finally stopping in front of Dean, who, admittedly, was still glaring at anyone who even so much as glanced at Sam. "Stupid."

For a moment, Dean wasn't sure what was happening, and almost forgot where he was. All he knew was that he was staring into the bluest fucking eyes he'd ever seen, and they looked ridiculously out of place on a Nazi. There was too much life in them – too much – good?

No, Dean huffed out a breath, pulling back to spit at the man's feet on reflex. Dean Winchester was nobody's fucking bitch, and Nazis weren't good. Not even in the same ballpark.

The blue eyed guy looked surprised at Dean's outburst, and there was an audible gasp from the prisoners in the line. Fuck if Dean didn't think he'd be shot right there. Sam certainly started moving closer into him, a silent plea for his older brother to behave as other soldiers started crowding around them.

The Nazi looked around them for only a moment, noticing all the other soldiers before his eyes narrowed, his jaw setting in such theatrical defiance that Dean almost laughed.

"What's your name?"

"Winchester," Dean supplied, glaring at the guy until he finally realized what he was doing – and where he was. Fuck, this was not going to go well if he kept this attitude up. He still needed to find a way to get Sammy out of here, still had to set his little brother free. With a mumbled apology, Dean dropped his eyes, letting the glare slide off his face in the hopes he wouldn't get Sammy into any more trouble.

"Winchester," the soldier bit out, his arm clamping down on Dean's elbow so hard that Dean hissed out. "After the playful little stunt you've decided to pull – you're coming with me."


End file.
